Punkin’s flute teacher (who, by the way, is awesome, but that’s another story) has set up a performance opportunity for some of her students at a local-ish assisted living facility on Saturday. When J sent out the email to her charges asking who would like to participate, I immediately replied that Punkin’ would do it (and yes, I’ll admit to doing that without consulting my daughter first, but in my defense we had already talked about Punk’s taking all the performance opportunities extended to her, and she was perfectly happy to agree to the show. I’m trying to actively encourage both her facility with and affection for her musical endeavors, and concerts are much more fun than boring old practice in the dining room. Again, though, that’s another story).
About three or four days ago, I was busy doing something else when a sinking, terrifying thought occurred to me. I know that my biologicals have moved back into the state after having tried to live closer to his family (if my intel is correct, they now live about 25 minutes from Chez Chili). I also know that neither of them is particularly well, but that the paternal unit is especially frail. The sinking, terrifying thought was that there was a fairly decent chance that the paternal is in an assisted living facility (for as much as he would hate every minute of such an existence, the hard fact may be that he simply has no practical choice in the matter). It is also true that the biologicals have an affinity for the community in which the facility in question is located – they lived there for about 20 years before their failed attempt at a northern migration – so it would not be entirely unthinkable that the paternal may well be in a position to enjoy Punk’s concert.
There was no way I was having any of that.
I emailed J with my concern and she – did I mention how awesome she is? – immediately emailed the coordinator at the facility and confirmed that neither of my biologicals is a resident of the place. My relief was palpable.
On with the show!